


Toasty

by yeaka



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:01:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22383748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Connor’s a space heater.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 6
Kudos: 103





	Toasty

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

“Fuck,” Hank mutters for the fourth time, even though absolutely nothing of note has happened—neither of their suspects has emerged from the grubby warehouse across the street, and the car hasn’t magically fixed its broken heater. They’re sitting in it anyway, surviving the frigid winter night for the sake of keeping the city safe. Hank’s two layers of shirt and jacket don’t seem to be enough. He’s visibly shaking, which makes Connor incredibly uneasy, even though he shouldn’t _be able_ to feel unease.

He does. He suggests again, “Perhaps you should return home. I’m perfectly capable—”

“Not a chance,” Hank grunts, just as Connor predicted. He had to try anyway. Every once in a while, Hank does surprise him. Not this time. Hank stubbornly stays hunched over the dashboard, squinting through the frosty windshield. His breath is disturbingly visible. 

Connor’s left with only one option. He wasn’t going to bring it up, because of course Hank’s just going to splutter and shoot him down, but he says anyway, “Perhaps you should allow me to warm you.”

“Excuse me?” Hank’s head whips around, which would be a problem, except Connor will notice any movement outside. He can turn his head and still focus on the task at hand easier than Hank can—even the tiniest movement in the farthest corners of his peripherals will register. Hank, on the other hand, has probably forgotten all about their mission. He blinks at Connor as though Connor’s grown a third arm.

“I’m capable of raising my body temperature significantly. I could help you.”

“By what, rubbing up against me?” There’s a faint pink hue to Hank’s cheeks when he says it—beyond what just the cold has brought out—but his tone isn’t as cantankerous as Connor expected. Because of that, Connor shifts sideways and leans closer. 

He reaches out to unfasten two of the buttons on Hank’s printed shirt. Hank stiffens and straightens up but doesn’t shove Connor away. “Hey, what’re you—”

The second the buttons are open, Connor slips his hand underneath the material, palm smoothing right over Hank’s skin, fingers gliding through the silver hair covering his stomach. Hank opens his mouth like he’s going to protest louder, but Connor heats his hand, and instead Hank just shivers, breath hitching. 

“Whoa... that’s... you _are_ warm...”

Connor nods. He murmurs, “Let me...” but just trails off, because Hank’s not resisting. Connor crowds to the very edge of his seat and slips his other hand behind Hank’s head, tangling in Hank’s long hair, warming the back of his neck. Hank leans back, eyes fluttering closed. Connor’s still watching the road.

But a good chunk of him is also noting Hank’s responses, the way Hank shudders and leans into his touch, breathing coming shallow and ragged. One of Hank’s larger hands flattens over Connor’s, the one on Hank’s stomach, and starts to guide Connor in a slow circle, rubbing Hank’s icy skin. It swiftly warms up as he caresses it. Connor dares to slide a little higher, warming Hank’s chest. 

Then he dips lower, tracing Hank’s hips, pinky grazing the hem of Hank’s pants, because Hank’s legs will need heat too—but Hank grabs his wrist and stops him. 

Hank’s opened his eyes again and mutters, “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”

“Why?” Connor asks. His voice comes out smaller than he’d expected. His eyes are still glued to Hank’s body.

Hank mumbles, “Because this is gonna warm me up the wrong way.”

Connor doesn’t think there is a wrong way. He’ll be careful. He won’t burn Hank. He climbs across the space between their chairs, precariously balancing on the edge of either one, so he can arch his body against Hank’s side and cover as much of Hank as he can. Hank presses, “Connor—”

But Connor realizes that he’s not just doing it for Hank anymore. He _likes_ it. He doesn’t allow Hank’s embarrassment to push him back. 

Maybe Hank understands that. He surrenders with a sigh. Connor keeps him warm until both suspects appear and the car surges back to life.


End file.
